


My Boy Builds Coffins

by myadamantiumheart



Series: My Boy Builds Coffins [1]
Category: Avengers
Genre: M/M, Mob Boss AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myadamantiumheart/pseuds/myadamantiumheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony hadn't known that he was getting involved with a mob boss, Steve hadn't given any indications of being anything other than a mild-mannered art teacher, and Pepper hadn't been right about one night stands being more dangerous than a long term relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warning: mild torture/violence against a prisoner

In the beginning, Tony’s not looking for trouble. Well. That’s relative, because in a way Tony’s always looking for trouble- he’s a trouble magnet, actually, and that’s probably why this happens in the first place. But he’s not _consciously_ looking for a life-threatening situation, so he’s actually quite surprised to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun in the middle of a dark warehouse.

“Tony Stark,” the man behind the 9mm purrs, and the hint of a bleached white smirk is just barely visible to his still-adjusting eyes. He’s dizzy, there’s blood running down the side of his face, and Tony recognizes that there’s something very, very wrong with this scenario.

“That would be me,” he mumbles out between a split lips, blinking furiously to try and clear his head.

“Of course,” the man snaps, suddenly not so self-satisfied, and the darkness of the room makes it impossible for Tony to brace himself for the fist coming towards his jaw.  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Stark, you’re not in a very good position for that kind of shit. Now, you can either answer my questions and die quickly, or you can not answer my questions and I can relieve a little pent up frustration before I slit your throat.”

“I’m gonna die either way, dumbass, what kind of choice is that?” He snarks, self-preservation obviously gone out the window along with his lucidity. “What answers would I have for you anyway? You’ve got the wrong man here-“

Fingers are scrabbling at the watch around his wrist, the watch Steve had given him last week for Valentine’s Day, and he tries to jerk away, but soon the shining metal is clinking against his aching cheek. Even in the dim light, the gleaming inscription is visible to his blurry eyes- the _I Love You- Steve_ jumps out at him and he swallows heavily at the thought that he might never hear those words again.

“You gonna tell me Rogers didn’t give this to you, Stark? You’re in no position to pretend you don’t know what’s going on.”

“Steve?” His lips are going numb now, but he manages to spit his boyfriend’s name out, disbelief written across his bruised and swollen face. What the fuck?

“Yeah, _Steve_ ,” the man is sneering, way too close to Tony’s face, his breath rank and angry. “Steve _fucking_ Rogers, the _Captain_. Oh, Tony, is it news to you that your precious boyfriend is a filthy fucking murderer? Didn’t he trust you enough to let him in a his little secret?” Without his permission, his neck is twisting, head shaking and teeth clenched painfully. Tony doesn’t know what’s going on, he doesn’t know where he is, but he does know that this guy has to be wrong. Steve, mild Steve who doesn’t cuss on the worst of days, with his sketchbook and his loft in Brooklyn and his absolutely endearing cowlick-

His head cracks back against the wooden edge of the chair, jaw making a horrendous hollow noise, a whimper escaping his bloody mouth when the cruel man’s cigarette cherry burns into the bare skin of his arm, and Tony doesn’t shake his head anymore.

\---

Eight months ago, crashing off a caffeine high and wishing he’d remembered to get Pepper to buy another flat of red bull for the lab, Tony stumbles into a coffee shop with the intent to ask if they can just pour espresso into a gallon milk jug and let him take it to go. He knows he looks filthy, grease in his hair, on his tee shirt, spread all over his raggedy jeans, but honestly he could care less. He can practically smell the caffeine, already reaching into his pocket for his wallet. It’s probably because of the sleep deprivation and his single-minded determination to get to his coffee as soon as possible that he completely misses the broad chest he’s about to walk into until, well, he walks straight into it.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” Broad hands are pulling him up off the floor as he blinks stupidly up at the strong jaw and bright blue eyes looking down. “I should have been watching where I was going-“

“It’s fine,” he says dazedly, still staring. “I, uh, I was distracted, really, it’s not your fault.” The blond man flushes slightly, letting his arms go and holding one of those ridiculously large hands out.

“Still, I’m sorry. I, uh- buy you a coffee?” Tony laughs at the sheer absurdity of someone buying him, a billionaire, a coffee, but something about the guy makes him say yes, and ten minutes later they’re sitting in the window, the Adonis across the table shyly asking Tony about his life. He learns that Adonis is actually named Steve Rogers, that he’s a weekend instructor at a local art store, that he lives with his foster brother James, and that he rides a vintage motorcycle. Steve, in turn, learns- well, he doesn’t learn very much about Tony because Tony is too busy having coffee-induced mouth orgasms and staring at Steve’s impressive pecs. So Steve wrangles the promise of another coffee session from Tony, handing him a little card with his number scrawled on it in perfect, neat script.

Tony lasts approximately three days before he calls the number.

\---

Somewhere in the haze of the new concussion he’s gotten from the seat back, he can vaguely remember a video camera recording his pathetic, puffy, bruised up face and the cruel man talking in the background. Demands- for ransom, for territory, for deaths.

“If you want him back” is a common phrase, one that makes Tony want to laugh. He has this sneaking suspicion that he’s not going back, not even if Steve showed up with a million dollars and the deed to the white house. The cruel man is sitting in a chair across from him at one point, the knife in his hand glinting cold as it rasps across a shiny stone, the sound sending shivers down Tony’s spine. He talks to Tony in that bitter voice of his, telling him things that Tony never, ever wanted to know.

“Rogers killed my father, you know,” he spits out in the shadows of the night, a faint glow coming in from the blood moon outside, the knife screeching. “Fucking murdered him in cold blood with that stupid shield of his.” Tony’s not sure whether to believe him, but the grimace that follows that statement makes him think it’s true. It makes Tony want to gag, the thought of it, but he doesn’t feel any sympathy for the cruel man, especially when he speaks again. “Cut off the bastard’s brother’s arm for that one, I did,” and the red skull curves up as he grins sickeningly, teeth bone-pale in the moonlight. Tony does gag, then, his mind unwillingly bringing up images of all the times he’s fiddled around with the mechanics in Bucky’s prosthetic arm, forcing him towards the inevitable truth. Denial has been his survival mechanism, but as the red skull keeps jouncing on the cruel man’s jaw, words spilling out poisonous into Tony’s ears, his ability to deny things floats farther away.

He wishes for unconsciousness again. And again.

And a third time, when the red skull starts stretching once more and that bitter voice details exactly what the cruel man’s going to do to Steve when he gets his hands on him.

It’s hours before unconsciousness finally comes back to give Tony what he wants- silence.

\----

The first time Tony meets James Buchanan Barnes, he gets dragged into a dark corner of Steve’s Brooklyn loft and told that if Steve’s ever made unhappy, bad, bad things will happen to Tony’s testicles. Tony doesn’t mind the threat, much- it’s not the first one he’s gotten from a protective older sibling. He’s actually more intrigued by the clumsy metal arm that pushes him against the wall, fingers going for the catches on the control panel without conscious thought.

“Hey, you know, this has some pretty shitty neural connections-“ He mumbles, one hand reaching into his pocket for his mini screwdriver kit, and Bucky sighs.

“Are you listening, Stark?”

“Uh, yeah, cut off my balls if I hurt Steve’s feelings, right,” but Tony’s already unscrewing the tiny hasps. “God, who the hell designed this, it’s got an awful command system-“ Bucky shoves him lightly, sighs again, and lets him continue with a long-suffering look on his face.

It doesn’t occur to Tony to ask why Bucky’s got a mechanical arm, nor why the Brooklyn loft has a weapons’ safe. And he doesn’t wonder about the laundry bag in the corner with suspicious black stains on it, or the suspicious people who come and go at all hours of the night and occasionally join them for dinner.

In hindsight, Tony really should have paid more attention to things other than how much he wanted to be making out with Steve.

But at the time, caught up in how much he loved hanging out with the other man, Tony doesn’t pay much attention at all. He doesn’t pay too much attention to the fact that everyone else seems to call Steve “Captain”, and the way Steve refers to his bevy of mismatched friends as “The Howling Commandos” should probably have rung a bell. He keeps on not noticing, and begins to show up at the loft at least three times a week, pestering Bucky to let him do more upgrades or getting underfoot when Steve cooks, and pouting when Steve’s phone rings and he “needs to go help his Nana with something”.

It occurs to Tony, in the terror of the warehouse, that Steve probably doesn’t actually _have_ a Nana.

\---

Steve didn’t really _mean_ to become a mob boss.  He actually did like art- his weekend job was his favorite job. Much more fun than killing people, and ordering people to be killed, and running beneath the law.

So yes, Steve didn’t start out looking to become a mob boss, or anything like that. It was just a coincidence- he’d been sick, very ill as a child, living in a not so great bit of town with a single mother and not enough money to pay for medicine. He didn’t really remember when, exactly, this whole thing had started- only that one day his mother had come home with a brown paper bag that had an inhaler in it and told him they didn’t have to worry about paying the bills any longer. He went along with it, too young to question, until one day- one day he woke up in the middle of the night and there were strange men in the kitchen and his mother didn’t look happy. Brandishing his toy shield, with his sleepy eyes and rumpled hair, he’d jumped in front of her before she’d even noticed he’d woken up.

“Don’ come near her,” he’d shouted, sleep-hoarse and trembling with fear. The tallest man had kneeled down, looking him straight in the eye, and smiled a smile that made Steve want to punch his stupid face.

“You’re a brave one, aren’tcha?” he asked, quiet, trying to appear non-threatening.

“And you’re mean,” he’d retorted. His mother had tugged on his shoulder, trying to move him, trying to explain- all Steve could see was the way her mouth curved downwards and the glimmer of tears in her eyes.  Years later, the tall man would still tease him about it- tiny little Steve, holding a plastic shield in front of his mother as if it could protect her from the most powerful man in New York. Steve never meant to become a mob boss- he only meant to stand in front of his mom and keep her away from the strange men in the kitchen.

And now, his mother long gone, Steve finds himself wishing for that shield again as he clenches his fists hard enough to leave red marks on his palms, blue eyes fixed on a crackly video of the Red Skull sliding a knife down Tony’s bicep. His mother had died anyway, Steve’s shield useless to protect her- not that night, but a few years later, gunfire in the streets, an angry schism between two gangs, and the tall man standing solemn at his door with the news. Now he glares at the screen, teeth grinding with each ember that hits Tony’s pale skin, hoping and vowing that Tony’s not gonna become another casualty. What good is being a mob boss if he can’t even protect one single person?

\---

When Tony wakes up again, the searing burn of yet another cigarette on his bicep shocking him out of blessed unconsciousness, the light in the warehouse is slightly better. Dawn is breaking over the horizon, muggy light spilling through the dirty windows. He can make out the edge of the cruel man’s face, the curious red skull on his jaw and sick expression on his face. The man’s grinning, lips stretched wide, and a laugh bubbles up in his chest.

“He didn’t pick a very strong one, did he?” he murmurs, casually flicking embers across Tony’s collarbone. “Woulda thought he’d want one who’d stand up to a little rough and tumble.” Gloved fingers crush the glowing embers into Tony’s skin, but Tony can hardly feel it anymore. The room is spinning, two of every object swaying in and out of focus, though the startling crimson of the cruel man’s face becomes very, very clear the closer it gets.

“Steve’s not rough-“ Tony’s voice doesn’t get very far, stuck in his throat, so weak that it makes him cringe. Is what he was about to say even the truth? Tony doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know where he is and he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, and now he knows very clearly that he doesn’t know who Steve really is either. The little red skull tattoo appears to sneer at him, seems bizarrely pleased by his fragile resistance, and he gets even closer.

“Rogers is _so_ very sick, leading you on like this,” he breathes, hot air touching Tony’s mouth. It makes him want to flinch away, to struggle out of his bonds and close his eyes. God, he wishes somebody, Steve, Happy, _someone_ would just show up already, please, just- just get him out of this chair and away from here. Leather brushes across his puffy jaw, those lips touching the bruise on his cheek, and Tony wants to crawl out of his skin with revulsion. “Is he gentle with you?” Mocking in his ear, the gloved hand grips his throat until Tony can’t breathe. “Does he like to pretend he’s not the Captain, Stark? Does he like to pretend he’s _normal_?” His voice is cold as he steps back, a hard kick sending the chair skidding back into the wall. “He’s not. He’s just like me, Stark, and hell if you’re not gonna die knowing it. Knowing exactly how bad he fucked you over.”

Did he? Tony wonders, fingers gripping weakly at the knots around them, but he doesn’t have much longer to wonder- a shot rings out, sparks ricocheting off the cold floor and spreading white fire across his vision.  His breath comes short, ears buzzing, barely catching the snarl and the slick sound of vinyl as the gun from earlier comes back out. The light of the warehouse door opening practically blinds him, eyes adjusted to the darkness, but the silhouette in the sun is recognizable.

“Steve?” confusion burns in his concussed head. Tony’s blinking just as stupidly as the first day they met, flinching against the rough rope bonds when another shot rings out. There’s blood spattered across his chest, seeping through his white tank top- it’s not his. And Tony is very, very sure of what else isn’t his, despite the fog in his brain- this Steve, a hard set to his jaw and blood on his hands, desperately untying the ropes around Tony’s ankles- that’s not his Steve. The cruel man is lying on the dirty, cold floor behind Steve, blood pooling out and none of that sick fire in his blank eyes, and when whoever’s Steve this is finally finishes undoing the ropes holding Tony back, Tony buries his aching face in his black suit. The cold metal of a gun rests gently against his shoulder blade, that hard jaw soft against his neck- right now Tony doesn’t actually give a fuck whether or not this is his Steve, because he’s taking Tony away from that splintery chair.

“Oh, _Tony_ ,” that’s the voice Tony remembers from the coffee shop, from the art museum and the loft in Brooklyn and from under the visor of that shiny blue motorcycle helmet. (Maybe- maybe this is still his Steve.)

“Fucking hell,” he croaks out, weak fingers slapping a broad shoulder. “I didn’t know art instructors made enemies like that.”  There’s the laugh he knows, rumbling out under Tony’s cheek in between choked breaths.

“They don’t. Because, I’m, you know-”

“Not actually an art instructor from Brooklyn. I know. He told me.” Steve’s face is so broken, so unhappy, but Tony’s past the point of caring. For a moment he vindictively thinks that _hey, Steve, fuck your emotions, you should have told me_ , but he doesn’t say that out loud. Even though he should, he definitely should, because Steve got him fucking _kidnapped_ by a lunatic.

“I’m sorry,” the bigger man says, cradling Tony closer. His gentle hands make it hard for Tony to believe he’s just shot a man, and Tony’s head spins just a little bit more at that horrible state of not knowing what’s truth and what’s a lie. He settles on believing that, for the moment, he’s safe, just in an attempt to calm his still-racing heart. Steve may be a murderer, and he may be a Don, just like the red skull man had told him, but at least Tony can tell himself that Steve’s not going to kill him at the moment.

 “Oh god,” Tony murmurs after a few moments, wiping his face. “I’m dating a fucking mob boss. Oh my fucking god.” He half chokes on a hysterical giggle, closing his eyes to the brightness of the sun peeking over the edge of the cracked windowsill high above them. (And Pepper owed him twenty bucks, she did, because he’d been right at the start- one night stands were _so_ much safer.)


	2. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's a little look at what could have come after the fact- after Steve rescues him from the warehouse and they get back to the loft.

Tony doesn’t let go of Steve until they reach the loft in Brooklyn, ignoring the white noise of Bucky’s snapping remarks, blank and unable to comprehend the street lights outside and the dawn breaking over a city that doesn’t even know any better. Tired, cold fingers grasp the black suit, bruised cheek resting on Steve’s shoulder and Tony’s mind races behind a glossy mask. After his outburst in the warehouse, slapping Steve’s bicep in hysteria, he stays silent.

 

Until the bedroom door closes behind Steve, shutting out the glint of Bucky’s arm and the concern in Sam’s eyes and the dial tone of the phone as someone thinks to call Pepper and tell her where Tony is. Steve’s calloused fingers are gentle, sliding the ruined, ragged tank top off of Tony’s beaten torso, pressing a heat pack against his hip and lips brush against Tony’s miraculously unscathed nose.

“God, Tony,” he breathes out, smelling like paranoia and relief. Blue eyes with miniscule pupils survey his bruised skin, following every burnt-pink track with clear self-hatred.

Steve leaves Tony on the bed to get the medical supplies, and Tony pulls himself together as much as he can.

“You could have trusted me,” he rasps, leaning back on cold elbows. Pale fingers tremble as they brush cigarette ash out of each and every weeping crimson circle, a cotton swab sending unpleasant sparks through Tony’s veins as it soothes burn cream over the cigarette burns. 

“No, I couldn’t have,” Steve finally says, shuttered and closed off, and Tony just aches for the ash to be artist’s charcoal, just aches for last Tuesday night on top of the drafting table, when he was blissfully unaware. It hurts to hear Steve say those words, despite the fact that he knew they were coming. Nobody trusts Tony- not if they’re smart. And Steve… Steve is very, very smart. “You would have been in danger.”

“Yes, because obviously I wasn’t in danger not knowing,” He bites out, unable to leash his sarcastic hurt, red fingers gesturing to the purple-yellow-red tableau of his torso. He doesn’t want- he doesn’t want to hurt Steve with his words but they can’t afford not to have this conversation.

Being kidnapped and tortured in a warehouse is something that could definitely break their relationship if they don’t discuss it, Tony thinks, light headed and stinging from the antiseptic in the cream.

“More danger,” Steve amends, eyes downcast as he unrolls a length of gauze, measuring it against the gash that stripes its way down Tony’s arm, puffy and curving along the muscle- like the knife had been a finger, caressing its way down the slope of Tony’s bicep. “I didn’t want you to know. Or become involved. Or-“

“Or?” He murmurs, soft and strained, clenching the bedspread like it’ll make the peroxide burn a little less, those artist’s (killer’s?) hands feathering across the cut, taping the white film down.

“Or for you to leave,” Steve moves on, arnica in hand and rough finger pads rubbing across the bruises. The antiseptic smell rises sharp between them, choking Tony- it makes him want to cry, his nose burning and his throat tightening, but most of all it makes him want to reach out to Steve and draw the tousled blond head to his battered sternum.

“Like I could leave,” Tony laughs, bitter and sad and crushed inside. “Baby, if there’s anything I’m sure of- I’m sure of you.” His hand cards through platinum strands, aching jaw set against them softly. “You know how crazy I felt when you came through that door? Felt like I was going insane, Steve. Cause all I could think of… Didn’t bother to think of how to get out, didn’t bother to think of how to run. All I wanted was for you to hold me again and make it all better. That’s not rational, Steve, it’s not logical, and I don’t fucking care. I just wanted to hear you say why you couldn’t tell me, that’s all. Didn’t want to _leave_.”

“I should have told you sooner,” Steve admits, fingers winding through the belt loops of Tony’s pants, cuddling him close and holding like he’s never gonna let go.

Tony doesn’t want him to.

“I was just afraid,” he whispers, words caught in the dark hollow of Tony’s throat. “Just afraid of what you’d think of me. I was afraid you’d see who I really am and you’d _leave_ and god, Tony, I didn’t _tell_ you and you got _hurt_. And I saw the tape and thought ‘why didn’t I tell Tony’ and then he pulled out the knife and all I wanted was to fucking _murder_ him.” His breath is shuddering, deep, rocking them on the mattress. Tony lets them fall backwards, ignoring the burning ache in his back and tightening his hold on Steve- not gonna let go, _never_ gonna let go.

“I know who you really are,” Tony tells him, quiet and more serious than he wants to let himself be. “And I love you.”

“I love you and it hurts,” Steve murmurs, words stinging but they’re the truth, and they’re what Tony wants.

He wants that gentle touch all over his body, making the hurt so good as Steve frosts it over sweet with pleasure he’s grown so, so very addicted to.

“Baby boy,” Steve whispers, against a cherry red burn.

“Love you,” Steve says, fingers trailing down ivory gauze and into Tony’s heart and all around him and Steve is sugar, gritty sugar, rough against his tongue and sweet in his throat and rushing through his veins. Raw sugar scraping his wounds and trying so very hard to be tender until Tony simply begs for Steve to remind him he’s alive.

And Steve does, oh, Steve _does_.

Tony falls asleep in the bed in the loft in Brooklyn like he has many times before, curled up with fingers resting between the fourth and fifth ribs of Steve’s rib cage, hair tickling his sternum and covers kicked down to their hips.

He knows who Steve is now- more than he did before.

It doesn’t change a thing and he doesn’t mind and Steve doesn’t mind. And it might take a minute, just for Tony to reevaluate: to remember what Steve’s day job actually is, for his wounds to heal, for him to reassure Steve that he’s not gonna leave, for Steve to tell him secrets like it’s his first nature to trust.

But it’s a minute Tony has to spare, and he doesn’t mind sparing it for Steve.


End file.
